Lovell's Wood
by Veringue
Summary: Previous generation. The era is the 1850s. Lady Violet is a young dreamer, reader and forest-roamer who believes that imagination is the key to life. Then one spring day her musings are interrupted by the daring young man from the castle next door. In short: a sneak peek into the life and lies of the Dowager Countess. Rated for ultraviolet radiation.


_A/N: Hello there, dear reader!_

_I have been wondering for about an eternity what Violet's youth might be like and how she might have behaved when she was young and (relatively) carefree. So, consequently, I came up with a ton of headcanons and scenes between her and her to-be husband, young Patrick. This ficlet, however, is not one of those headcanons but was written spontaneously as a feel-good fic for OrangeShipper._

_Basically, what I'm trying to say is, this doesn't really fit into any broader timeline but is just a snippet of our beloved Violet's youth. Also, I'm not entirely sure how old they are here - rather on the young side, I should like to think - so I'll leave that to you to decide!_

_Just to be clear, these are simply my interpretations of the characters when they were young (this isn't really directly based on anything__), although I do hope that their personalities are consistent and believable enough, so I very much would like to know what you think! Secondly: I have done my absolute best to make the situation as realistic as possible for the 19th century so I hope it turned out all right!_

_Anyway I'll stop rambling now and do enjoy!_

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She lay on her back in the grass, leaves and sunlight playing a shadow game on her face as she inhaled, raising her head to watch her chest rise, and then waited a moment. She forced herself to remain in that position for as long as was possible – this only lasted a second or two – and, as a reward, let herself breathe out, to which the blades of grass surrounding her face leaned back in fear. Smiling, she let her head fall back again, and so the breathing process repeated itself.

It was the perfect spring day, the breeze was mild, the sun was in a fine mood, and for once, young Violet was at peace. She closed her eyes and laid her hand across her waist, across the book that lay there half-open. She had read _Pride and Prejudice_ a thousand times before, being one of the cultured few readers of Jane Austen – indeed she believed herself to be the only one in the county who did read Miss Austen's works – but she never ceased to take pleasure in Mr Bennet's wonderfully sarcastic lines and witty comebacks. And what better place to laugh over them than in the silence of this forest?

It was the one forest that bordered Violet's family's Yorkshire country house. On the other side there were only fields, too open and too bare for her liking. But this forest was just right. It was not a particularly well-known forest, an excessively large forest, or an excessively beautiful forest, but it provided the necessary green and blue and gold to have it fit the definition of a forest, and that was all that mattered. Besides, Violet had enough imagination to make a clump of moss into a landscape of rolling hills and snow-capped mountains, and a dragonfly into an exotic warrior, so she had not the slightest difficulty with turning this amateur wood into an enchanted fairy tale setting.

Lovell's Wood, she called it. It had not had a name in the very beginning, when Violet was small, and her elder sister Roberta had held her hand and accompanied her through the darker shadows and over the thicker roots. But as soon as Violet had been old enough to walk and think for herself – this she had been able to do at a relatively young age already – she had decided to call it Lovell's Wood. For what reason, she could no longer recall.

Out of nowhere, a butterfly sat down on her forehead, and, squinting, she crossed her eyes to look at it.

"It might be blue," she murmured, "but it seems the trees above me have gone blue as well. So I cannot be sure. But I do like the colour blue, so, blue you shall be, my dear." The butterfly rocked its fragile wings up and down to a silent rhythm. "Well, since you seem rather shy today, do allow me to do the talking, darling," Violet went on. "For one, I cannot possibly go on calling you 'darling' and 'my dear' and all those preposterous nicknames! Therefore, I shall officially christen you Mr Cerule. How do you like the view from up there, honourable Mr Cerule?"

And so this was how he found her, rambling to herself, her eyes crossed, with a shy little butterfly perched on her forehead.

As usual, he felt as though he were intruding upon her and instantly wished he had not come. But there was no going back now, so Patrick clicked his heels and bowed stiffly. Before he could say a single word, however, the butterfly fluttered off, alarmed at his sudden movements, and Violet bolted up right.

For a moment, her eyes followed Mr Cerule until he intermingled with the leaves seconds later. To her disappointment, he was not blue. Then she looked at the young man standing over her, but his figure blurred almost instantly and she raised a hand to her head.

"Do forgive me, Lady Violet, for scaring off your beautiful butterfly," he said warmly, removing his hat and pressing it to his chest as he spoke.

Violet clutched at her novel and attempted to get up. Once she had regained her balance she gave him a brief glance, traced her eyes over his perfectly-pressed grey suit, up to his neatly-cut brown hair, and then slightly down again to linger momentarily – out of politeness – on his…neutral-coloured eyes. They were sort of non-descript indeed, she decided. Allow me to say, dear reader, that, in truth, Patrick Crawley was a good deal more handsome than our Violet made him to be.

After having performed her standard observations and having decided that Patrick looked just as uninteresting as usual, she desperately tried to focus on what he was saying. "Please, there is no need for heavy words like forgiveness, Lord Patrick," she replied eventually, the stars beginning to fade before her eyes. "It is but an irrelevant insect! Why should I be offended?" She managed a small laugh, her hand gripping the tree behind her. "What a ridiculous notion!"

Patrick's smile faded. "Well, I simply assumed…for you seemed to be talking to it."

"Talking to a butterfly?" she interrupted incredulously. "Are you feeling quite well?"

The question may or may not have been rhetorical – either way, Patrick did not feel the slightest desire to answer it. He cleared his throat and clutched his hat still tighter to his chest. 'How very funereal he looks that way,' Violet thought to herself, 'as though he is already standing at my grave. Well, I am most certainly not the least bit dead yet, I assure you!' she exclaimed mutely.

Patrick, thankfully unable to read her thoughts, recommenced, "I came to invite you and your family to have dinner at the Abbey tonight. Seeing as it has rained torrents yesterday, I am sure it is to be a beautiful evening." 'By God,' he thought, 'I hope that has convinced her. I know not the slightest thing about the weather but I do hope my father's books are as trustworthy as he says they are!'

Violet scrutinized him from under her lashes. "Why, how kind of you to invite us for the third time this week!" she blurted out before she could stop herself. "But, dear me, you ought not to have trudged through all this mud and splattered your beautiful shoes to deliver this message!"

Both Patrick and Violet looked down immediately at his immaculate shoes that practically reflected their two young faces. There was not a speck on them. And that was just her point. Patrick, proper as he was, managed to remain composed.

Swallowing, he looked up again. "Why, I wanted to talk to you in person, Lady Violet, for my visits to you are always filled with such amusement!"

Violet's eyes narrowed and she found herself clutching her book ever so much tighter. What game was he playing at now? "Well, I cannot say that I do not agree with you there, my lord. But how, pray tell, did you know to find me here?" Her voice dripped with teasing sarcasm. This was her Lovell's Wood, her place. No one else was allowed to come here, with the occasional exception of Roberta, but she was gone now, so no exceptions were to be made. Certainly not for Patrick Crawley.

"I always thought of you as someone to roam around amidst the green, talking to butterflies, reading _Pride and Prejudice_, and acting quite the lady," he replied immediately. This answer came to him much quicker, without a second thought.

As he looked up, wondering, anxiously wondering, whether the right tone of conversation had finally been struck, he found Lady Violet looking almost impressed, and for a moment he thought she might say that she had taught him well. But instead she let out a burst of genuine laughter, which ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Covering her mouth with her gloved hand, Violet looked down at her own shoes now, shoes that had once been white. Patrick did not know whether the laugh could be taken as a good sign. He never knew with this young woman.

"Well, nevertheless," she continued hastily, "dinner at Downton is always a joy." She paused, hoping that he would excuse himself, but alas he did not! Tiresome Patrick. So she found herself obliged to curtsy. "I bid you a good morning, my lord, and look forward to seeing you this evening."

She moved to pass him but only got a few steps until he called out to her, "My lady, may I ask one more thing of you?"

Reluctantly, she turned to face him. "You just did, my lord, but do go on."

Patrick hid his lips behind the tip of his hat and took a moment to arrange his words. "What must I do to come across interesting to you, I wonder?" He did not look at her as he spoke but at the ground, alive with insects about their daily jobs, fetching and lifting objects three times their own size. His eyes on the ground, he spoke as though he were simply musing, talking to himself. "Must I…have an income of ten thousand pounds a year? Must I…have been more rude at the start? Must I prove myself to you by anonymously donating large sums of money to maintain your family's reputation? Or must a good friend of mine have married your sister?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" enquired Violet, who knew perfectly well what he was talking about and had only to conceal her surprise at the fact that he, one of the opposite, exotic species, knew _Pride and Prejudice_ as well as she did.

"Do you take pleasure in jesting with me?" he continued, strengthened now. "Do you despise me so much that you enjoy it?" His voice trailed off. He waited, but she did not speak. She watched him, as much a creature of this forest, he felt, as any wondrous bird that sang overhead – and, moreover, just as allusive.

"Dearest Lord Patrick," Violet began, smiling to herself, "the question is not whether I despise you, as you so dramatically put it, but whether you have ever seen me like anyone any more. I am a solitary being, you see, it is in my nature. I cannot help it."

Patrick's face remained hard, his stern jaw and high brow glistening in that filtered golden sunlight that Violet so loved to observe on her own skin. She would often turn her slender fingers this way and that to try and catch the light in her hand. And just now she had the very same irresistible temptation to make it hers.

"You remain unconvinced," she said with a small sigh. And before he could speak, she had laid her hand on his cheek. Now her fingers had turned golden. And then her lips were golden, and warm, and so were his, for in the forest these intermingled shades of gold and violet seemed to follow her wherever she went.

The kiss was short but sweet as a spring blossom and infinitely more enjoyable. It was over in a split second. Pulling back, she stated matter-of-factly, "There, are you satisfied now?" And patted his shoulder.

Patrick Crawley's jaw dropped to the ground and for once he forgot all about his manners, remaining perfectly speechless.

"So, you see, I despise everyone, absolutely everyone. In fact, I absolutely loathe people of all sorts. But you least of all, it seems." She took a step back and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Violet was on the verge of reopening her book and resuming her promenade through the wood, when a thought struck her, "Oh, good sir, please do me the pleasure of telling your cook that, although I am aware that you know of my eternal partiality to strawberries and probably have already given the order to prepare them for a dessert, she should not bother, for they are out of season, and we must at least do them the honour of letting them grow, mustn't we, before taking away their precious little lives? On that note, a good day to you, sir."

If Violet had had a hat, she would have tipped it just then, but she was forced to drop another dreadful curtsy instead. She turned away, humming a merry tune to herself, and once she was sure that Patrick was out of earshot, she broke into a giggling fit that caused the birds to rise, cawing, from the treetops, and had the maids at Downton Abbey pause momentarily to look up in confusion.

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_A/N: Well, there you are! (; I hope you liked it and if you could let me know what you thought (even in a one-syllable review) then that would absolutely make my day! Thank you so much for reading!_


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